


breathe again

by CarmenOnMonday



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post UCL Final
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 04:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19077841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmenOnMonday/pseuds/CarmenOnMonday
Summary: This is football’s most vicious face, but he’s here to experience it, and for that, he has to be grateful. It hurts, but this kind of pain only few can taste, so there’s nothing here to do but savour it and let it leave a permanent mark, one that’ll remind him in the future of how far they can get, and how easily it might all fall apart.That’s the way to survive, even when the world crumbles. That’s where the comfort is found. In the riot of colours and sounds, in the abundance of feelings just waiting to consume him, it’s the burning that he holds on to. That’s how you show the world the gracious face of defeat. You let it burn through you, you tighten you jaw and show unwavering endurance.This is Tottenham.





	breathe again

**Author's Note:**

> Hurt too much, I had to deal somehow.  
> English isn't my native language.

 

 _Open up next to you and my secrets become your truth_  
_And the distance between that was sheltering me comes in full view_  
_Hang my head, break my heart built from all I have torn apart_  
_And my burden to bear is a love I can't carry anymore_

* * *

 

The noise is almost deafening, thousands and thousands of fans in the wrong colours singing about never being alone. Maybe it should intimidate him, remind him that they are, in the end, alone in the face of defeat and no amount of hugs and comforting words can change that, but no, it doesn’t; instead, it makes him straighten his back, hold his head even higher.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in. _This is it._

Breathe out. _The beauty of football. The tragedy of football._

Breathe in. _We’ll be back._

Breathe. Again. And again. Again.

He takes everything in: people singing passionately, two different songs mingling with each other. The happiness found, and the happiness lost. Fans in red and their exhilaration. Fans in lily white and their tangible devastation, stream of tears on their cheeks shining in the lights. The disappointment in the air surrounding his teammates. He takes everything in, lets it drill into his mind, lets it burn his insides and leave a mark. He touches those who can bear to be touched, he wanders around and feels the look on his back that tells him sometimes it's better to keep your distance not to fall apart.

This is football’s most vicious face, most humane face, but he’s here to experience it and for that, he has to be grateful. It hurts, but this kind of pain only few can taste, so there’s nothing here to do but savour it and let it leave a permanent mark, one that’ll remind him in the future of how far they can get, and how easily it might all fall apart.

That’s the way to survive, even when the world crumbles. That’s where the comfort is found. In the riot of colours and sounds, in the abundance of feelings just waiting to consume him, it’s the burning that he holds on to. That’s how you show the world the gracious face of defeat. You let it burn through you, you tighten you jaw and show unwavering endurance.

This is Tottenham.

Head high, straight back, no hesitation. Every step taken on the path just next to the trophy feels more like a salvation, because even if he goes first and attracts all the curious, pitiful looks, he knows that the rest will follow. He knows every step he takes has a meaning. They are not alone in their defeat.

 

 

The difference between a win and a lose can be found in the contrast between the noise still filing the stadium and the silence surrounding them as soon as they enter their locker room. The disappointment encompasses them heavily in the quietness, and it’s almost enough to break through his barriers, but he looks around, at the people at their most vulnerable moments, swiftly skipping that one face that might be his kryptonite, and he knows there is only one way out of this. Improving.

If on the pitch they were still all together, now they start facing their personal demons. Nobody dares to speak up. Nobody dares to look at the other. Eric makes sure to leave enough space for everyone to deal with their emotions the way they want to, even though for him it feels like a safety hazard. But it’s true that the words don’t feel right now for those who know them by heart from repeating them over and over again, and so even if his thoughts, full of _proud, resilient, a team_ , threaten to choke him, he just sorts through them in his mind and waits for the right moment to open his mouth; he knows they can have a meaning, that there’re people waiting for players to offer them some relief. Those who struggle themselves are supposed to carry the message of love and hope, but not many of them will find the comfort in offering it. Eric will.

But then, even this is done. The hugs are all given, the thoughts formulated and said out loud, and still, the heavy feeling in his stomach doesn’t disappear. They leave the stadium in their deadly quiet bus full of shadows, and nobody is looking at his strength anymore, nobody is drinking in his resilience, nobody needs it.

That’s when the hard part begins.

 

 

In the empty room, minutes feel like hours, but then hours speed quickly until it’s 4am, and he’s still wide awake, unsure of what to do, what to feel, how to move on.

He hasn’t done enough yet, there are still people hurting, but the small hotel room puts restrictions on his tangled thoughts and it’s hard to come up with the way to do more. He’s not needed at the moment. He needs to let go, his reasonable side tells him. Rest is the only way to recover, and so he tries to rest.

The bed is too soft for his liking. The air is too dense.

The silence is too loud, until it’s interrupted by the soft knocking.

Of course, there’s one more person who didn’t get a hug from him and didn’t hear any encouragements, who he could only offer the silent reassurance that he’s close and ready whenever he wants. Eric sighs in relief, gets out of the bed and braces himself before he opens the door.

“Hey, big man,” Dele whispers in the dead of the night. Eric focuses on his crossed arms he’s hugging himself with. He doesn’t look into Dele’s eyes. “Too warm in my room. Mind if I crash at yours?”

They both know it’s not a real question.

Eric steps aside to let him in.

Dele crosses the room and goes straight to the opened window. He breaths the fresh air in loudly. And then he waits. He doesn’t have to speak up or create any havoc to fill the room with him presence.

Surprisingly, shockingly even, it’s suffocating. The initial relief Eric felt disappears when he stares at Dele’s silhouette in the dimmed light of the moon and tries to gather enough strength to come closer to him, find him, touch him. It’s as hard to reach out to him as it was on the pitch. The steps between him and Dele seem more of a challenge than the climb up the Mount Everest. Or even the steps to the stage, just hours ago.

It hits Eric, that maybe... Maybe it wasn’t Dele that needed his space out there and was scared of getting too close.

“Eric?” Dele breaks the silence again. “Can you...?” he doesn’t finish.

Eric still observes him, stands awkwardly by the door. “Mhm?”

“Can you... hug me? Please?” It’s the vulnerability that does it. It makes Eric forget about any of his inhibitions. Before he realises, he’s already in Dele’s personal space, he already gathers him in his arms and presses a kiss to his bare of any product hair.

One breath in, and Eric starts shaking. He hopes Dele can’t feel it.

“Whatever you want,” he whispers solemnly. Even if it breaks him, as long as Dele stays in one piece.

Dele clutches at the back of Eric’s t-shirt and holds as tightly as if he could slip away from Eric’s hold any second now.

Eric’s helpless against the desperation that seems to feel the air around them. Even the open window doesn’t help, they’re still choking, and Eric can feel the emotions bubbling in him and tingling in the corners of his eyes.

“Tell me, Eric, please,” Dele begs, and Eric opens his lips before his mind catches up with him.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, you were great, you were so good, I’m so proud of you. We should- we should be proud of the journey because- because-“

Because they proved the world they can do that, they showed what it means to fight till the last minute; they displayed pure resilience, which-

Which now, Eric’s empty of.

Dele tucks himself even closer into him. “Go on, Eric. For me. Tell me.”

He tries again, needs to fight through the tightness in his throat.

“Now we learn from it, and we take it with ourselves to the next season, and- And we’re not alone in the defeat, we’re-“

“We’re a team,” Dele finishes when Eric can’t. He lifts his head and looks into Eric eyes, and Eric can barely see anything, his vision blurred, but his knows the colour of Dele’s eyes enough to always find home in it. It’s yet another push that brings him closer to the edge. He doesn’t want to fall. He can’t. He’s desperately trying to hold on to the scraps of his strength, but it’s almost gone now. He can’t breathe. “We’re together.”

Eric nods furiously. He knows it. So why do these words cut through his body?

Dele’s an embodiment of safe shelter when he whispers, “I got you, Eric.”

And Eric’s done. His bravado crumbles, his walls break down, remains of his resilience disappear into the tin air.

He has enough rational brain cells left to know he allowed himself to be tricked, but maybe that's exactly what he needed.

Dele sways dangerously when Eric falls into him with his entire weight, but he stays upright and then steadies himself and doesn’t let go even when his neck gets wet.

He holds him tight and repeats the word Eric knows, but coming from him, they get a new meaning. They sound like a promise.

“I’m proud of _you_ ,” he says, and Eric can only sniff in the answer. His body is racked by sobs. “Talk to me, Eric.”

He asks for more than the speech he’s got prepared for the fans, and if there’s anyone in the world able to make Eric unravel himself, it’s him.

“I wanted it so badly...”

“We all did,” Dele whispers into his forehead which he kisses softly. “Nothing wrong with it.”

Eric knows that, but-

“If I-“

“No ifs. You told me that the first season we played together. Remember? No ifs. We’re only looking ahead. You left your entire heart out there, we all did, and it wasn’t enough, but it will be next time.” He sounds so sure. He's already worked that out.

Through his barely coherent thoughts, Eric can feel the pride raising in him again. Dele – smart, beautiful, _his_ – Dele, who, as Eric tricked himself into thinking, was too fragile to be approached in case it’d make him snap or break, shows him the amount of strength Eric could only hope to posses.

Eric takes a slow breath and realises it’s a bit easier now, even in this tiny, stuffy room. Walls doesn’t seem to tighten all around him anymore. He takes another breath, this one not hitched at all, and bites his lip.

He slowly steps out of the embrace.

“I’m sorry.”

Dele gives him a hard look.

“Shut up.”

Eric turns around and goes to his bed; he uses the seconds when he’s looking the other way to let out what’s bothering him.

“It should be me comforting you, I don’t know why-“

“And why? Why should it be you? Do you have a monopoly on being the rock of the entire team?” Dele argues.

“Someone has to step up, I-“

“You _did_ , and I swear to God I’ve never been more proud of you than in that moment, but Eric, if you keep holding this all in, it’ll-“ he doesn’t end, but he doesn’t have to. Eric notices the haunted look in his eyes, and he remembers that Dele’s seen people consumed by bitterness before, and he’s dealt with it for far too long in his life already, and Eric thought he protected him by not laying his own issues on him, but maybe he was doing the opposite.

“Come here,” he asks, desperately. In a flash, Dele’s melting into him again. He finds a comfortable position in his lap and leans in.

They both stare at each other, intensely enough to peer into each other souls.

“Don’t cut me out, please?” Dele asks, and Eric wants to repeat what he said before. _Whatever you want, Dele._ “I- I can’t deal with this.”

“No, no, I didn’t want to, I just thought you needed your space, after the World Cup, you said that you wanted to come to terms with it on your own so-“

Dele shakes his head. His hand travels to Eric’s hair and starts massaging his skull.

“Not what I mean. Maybe I did need space, I could think more clearly later, but still... I’m- I can’t be the priority here.“

“But you are my priority!” Eric protests, the fire behind his words burning his insides in a completely different way. In a “I love you so much I can’t stop myself from always putting you first” way.

“You want to help me? Let me help _you_ from time to time. I- I love you. I love how you always try to do the right thing for me, but you’re allowed to ask for what you need, Eric. If I didn’t come here, if- if I didn’t ask for you, would you've come to me?”

Eric only answers in his head. No, he wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt Dele’s peace.

“I love your selflessness, but you need to let me in from time to time, okay?” he asks with such a genuine care behind it that Eric feels his walls crumble again.

“I don’t like feeling like this,” he chokes.

“It’s just me, baby. Just me. Let me-” he stops speaking and leans in to kiss Eric softly.

So Eric lets him. Lets him kiss him and touch him. Lets him see the darkest version of himself. Lets him pull at his insecurities and fears and inhibitions, lets him peer into his soul and lets his love cover the hurting spots, balm the burns.

Lets him arrange them both on the bed, which doesn’t feel too soft anymore, and murmur reassurances to him, and ask about his feelings, and spill his own thoughts.

The sun is already rising when they fall quiet again.

The peace that fills Eric’s body feels different, less forced, no longer for show.

Eric lies with his head on Dele’s chest and he can already tell he’ll have a hangover from all these emotions tomorrow, he can already tell he’ll still automatically try to bend to Dele’s needs and hide that he swallows his own feelings under the pretence of caring for others.

But for now, he feels calm, content in Dele’s arms.

“We had a good run, right?” he asks, and it’s not just empty talk.

“Legendary,” Dele murmurs, half-asleep.

They’ve both started to heal.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.  
> Tell me...


End file.
